


No One Expects the Scottish Inquisition

by the shame corner (sometimesimeow)



Category: Men's Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Andy Robertson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bottom Lionel Messi, Boypussy, Cunnilingus, Fluff and Humor, Intersex Omegas, Language Barrier, M/M, Omega Lionel Messi, Porn With Plot, Scottish Dialogue, Top Andy Robertson, Vaginal Sex, no betas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimesimeow/pseuds/the%20shame%20corner
Summary: Andy Robertson gets drunk and makes a huge mistake that gets caught on camera. Naturally, Klopp demands he rectify his mistake by going to Spain and apologizing to Lionel Messi.
Relationships: Andy Robertson/Lionel Messi, Dejan Lovren/Mohamed Salah (background), Marc-Andre ter Stegen/Alisson Becker (Background), Virgil Van Djik/Jurgen Klopp (Background)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 96





	No One Expects the Scottish Inquisition

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授翻】No One Expects the Scottish Inquisition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347650) by [frui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frui/pseuds/frui)



> Recommendation: Andy Robertson’s dialogue is best spoken out loud and in a Scottish accent. I used an English-Scottish translator for his part, and when editing, I learned it is not a section that can be read in your head.
> 
> Further Recommendation: "Liar" by Camila Cabello is great background music for this story.

Andy Robertson craved a whiskey. He looked around to see if there was a stewardess he could call, but she seemed to be busy in the back, doing whatever it was flight attendants did on private planes. Alisson was seated across from him, headphones snugly in place to contain the sound of his video, but his boisterous laughter voided those intentions. At least someone was happy, Robertson thought. Virgil was on his phone, claiming he had important business, but Robertson was ninety percent sure he was sexting Klopp or whatever those two liked to do on the down-low. Robbo wouldn’t say Virgil got his captaincy by sleeping with the coach because Virgil was a monster of a defender and deserved everything he got, but they were _really_ touchy-feely, and he swore Virgil copped a feel in the middle of practice before. If they were trying to hide their relationship, they weren’t good at it. As far as the Scottish player was concerned, that meant they were open to ridicule.

Normally, Robbo wasn’t this much of an ass, but the three of them left immediately after that day’s training. His muscles were sore, his head was aching, and he was one dirty look away from opening his big mouth and saying something stupid enough to get him thrown off the plane. Mid-flight.

Finally, the flight attendant stopped by their seats to ask if they needed anything.

“Fuck ay,” Robbo exclaimed. He was about to order a drink when Virgil cut him off.

“He’ll have a water,” Virgil answered. Then, their third captain gave the woman a panty-dropping smile and gave her a drink order that somehow resurfaced all the insecurity Robbo faced when his coach from Celtic told him he was too small to play football. Both of them were alphas, but Virgil was in a class of his own. He was over six feet, all muscle, and had enough swag to swing him over to Singapore. Robbo loved the man like a brother, but he knew God took some extra time making him. 

“Ah think ah can handle a drink,” Robbo told him.

Virgil gave him a look.

“Whit's wi’ thon leuk?” Robbo asked, trying to look affronted instead of guilty.

“This isn’t a vacation,” Virgil told him. From behind them, Alisson bellowed out another plane-shaking laughter.

Robbo returned Virgil’s look.

Virgil stayed strong, though there was a smile in his eyes. Robbo knew he thought this was stupid, too. The taller man raised his hands in defeat. “Hey, don’t look at me. Alcohol is what got you into this mess.”

***

The statement was not entirely accurate. Alcohol didn’t do much anything. Robertson’s penis was the real offender here—that and his insufferable Scottish mouth that didn’t know when to keep shut.

Robertson and some of the lads on the team were having a night out, enjoying themselves in the company of highly aggressive wagabees doing everything they can to be the one these guys took home that night. The nightlight culture of a footballer was something that always hit young players in the face when they first start out. Robertson remembered his teammates at Queen’s Park, dragging him to a club when he was eighteen, gangly limbed with a face recovering from middle school acne. Thirty minutes in, he managed to get knuckle-deep in a stranger’s pussy. The experience was simultaneously terrifying, and arousing. He soon learned that the incident was the norm for footballers. Hundreds of pretty girls and boys line up every Saturday night outside the VIP section to get a taste of the players, and they were willing to do anything to be the one chosen. As Robertson advanced in his career, his opportunities multiplied. Footballers in the Premier League got their pick of pussy, and the Scotsman was no exception.

Though a part of Robertson’s hormone-addled brain urged him to follow the path of Rio Ferdinand and the thousands of other footballers who couldn’t keep it in their pants—the part that loved his mother, and respected omegas, and admired each one he played with and played against with—told him to keep his balls in check. Omegas weren’t things. They deserved his respect.

With that being said, Robertson fucked up that night.

Old habits die hard and the four lagers and half a bottle of whiskey wasn’t doing him any favors either. Robertson was a good drunk, jovial and fun to be around, but what kind of Scotsman would he be if he couldn’t prove to his comrades that he could drink them and their mother under a table. A bad one, for sure. So, Robertson drank, and he drank, and everyone was having a good time, until the bouncers let in a few omegas into the VIP room. Before Robbo knew it, this tiny, gorgeous thing was grinding on his cock, ready to show him a good time in exchange for a flat in Aigburth. At that moment, Milly—their sober, responsible, killjoy of a vice-captain, Milly—told them it was time to leave. He pulled Robertson’s partner off the couch, and then proceeded to collect the other boys who had their laps full of omega ass.

“That’s enough now,” Milner ordered.

The boys—and Robertson—booed their boring leader as he ushered the omegas out. 

“Wa’d you do that for?” Curtis asked, aghast. “She was ready to suck my dick in the middle of the club!” 

“Not cool, man,” Trent agreed.

Robertson joined in the berating. “Ye're bein’ a real cockblock, Milly! Let the boys have their fun.” He took another swag of his beer.

“You’re all having too much fun.” Milner sighed like an underpaid nanny. “You’ll thank me for this later when you’re not making monthly installments on their condos.”

“Oh, come on!” They yelled at him.

Milner requested a server bring their tab. Robertson wasn’t sure what came over him—and in his defense, he wasn’t sure what his name was this far intoxicated—but he decided to get up and announce to Milly that this was supposed to be a fun night out with the pups, and they should enjoy themselves. “Milly, ma boy! Live a little! We’re supposit tae be young an’ wild an’ free! Wa’s a little ass grindin gaun'ae hurt?”

Milner rubbed his temples. “Robbo…”

“I’m juist saying,” Robertson interrupted. “It's important fur th' lads tae git it out o' thair system soona betta than latta.”

“Like you?” Milner asked dryly, clearly referring to the sweet young thing from earlier.

Robertson waved them off. “Ye know me, Ah like dem small. Give me a pretty thin wi’ a tiny waist, an’ a big, fat ass an’ A’m a goner.” Robertson sighed dramatically, and when he made the motions to match, he nearly stumbled onto the floor. Milner caught him, and Trent appeared at his right to help him stabilized. “Ye can’t blame me for that. Ah’ mean, Ah’ can appreciate an omega on the bigger side. Klopp’s a real treasure. Love thon ass o his, aw nice an' juicy. An’ ye know, Ah can’t blame Salah for bein’ late whan he’s probably spendin’ every mornin’ eatin' Lovren’s ass like a fuckin’ cupcake— because damn, that bottom coud win medals. An’ ah’ kno, cause ah’ve leuk—.”

“Okay, now you’ve really had too much to drink,” Milner scolded.

“Ye’ know who has a great ass?” Robertson babbled out. He tried to move towards Milner, but instead knocked over a bottle to the floor. The boys laughed at him. “Fuckin’ Lionel Messi.” Robertson whistled and released a string of profanities that would have gotten him on a priest’s hitlist. “What ah’ wouldn’t give for a chance at that ass.”

“Oh God,” Milner shook his head. “Please stop before you embarrass yourself.”

Ox was having a blast listening to his teammate dig himself a grave. He laughed as Robertson continued his tangent.

“Hey!” Robertson yelled in protest. “Ye an’ Ah’ both know Lionel Messi has the best ass in football!” The Scotsman closed his eyes and released a loud, exaggerated moan. “Ah bet they put him on the squad so they could look at it from behind. What a beauty! Can ye imagine thon thin bouncin’ in yer face while he rides ye, or hou yer cock will leuk inside him? _Fuck_.” Robertson released an obscene groan. This one wasn’t fake. “Ah still remember hou his waist felt in ma arms. It wis so _small_. An’ man, that pussy must be tight as a noose cause he got real wound up losin’ the match.”

“He got wound up because you shoved him,” Milner corrected.

Robertson tutted at him—not an ounce of sobriety in him. “Oh, Ah can still hear his voice. Ah dare ye tae name me one thin’ hotter than bein’ yelled in Spanish. Do it. Ah’ll wait.” Robertson didn’t wait. “Ah swear if Ah hear him yell at me again, A’m juist gonna shove ma cock in his mouth and see gin he’ll choke or take it like a champ. Bet it’s the latter ; omegas like him wouldn’t be playin' if he didn’t like it rouch.” Robertson waved his hands up, but the action ended up tipping him over to the floor.

Everyone except Milly rioted at Robertson’s drunken form; the vice-captain begrudgingly bent over to pick up his problem off the floor. Within minutes, Milly paid the tab and called it a night after making sure everyone got to their cabs safely. Ox teased him for being such a dad but still hugged him before he left. Robertson was still singing in his arms, drunk as a fish. He’d be spending the night on Milly’s couch without question.

Neither of them noticed the vengeful shadow of an omega Milner had dismissed before the rant. Irritated at having lost her chance to score a premier leaguer, she found a spot in the corners, where she watched the players jeer at this teammate’s drunken rant. With a lick of her lips, she got out her phone and began to record.

The Daily Mail was going to love this, she thought. 

***

The video went viral.

Before Robertson could wake up on his own, Milner dragged him off the couch and shoved him in the shower. The cold water put up a good fight against his hangover, but in the end, the remnant of his drunken night remained victorious in a match of ‘shitty ways to wake up.’ He didn’t have a moment to think or ask questions when he forcibly dressed and dragged to the car. Milner explained that they were going to meet with Klopp.

Robbo groaned. “It’s an aff day. Ye know they exist?”

Milner didn’t look at him. He threw Robertson his phone and told him to check the news.

Before Robertson could get there, he was bombarded some of the nastiest messages he’d ever received in his life—including a death threat from his mother. Wondering what the fuck he'd gotten into last night, he did as Milner suggested. Robertson’s scandal was the first article of the Sun and the Daily Mail. As the video played, Robertson’s eyes got bigger and bigger, until nothing was left on his face but brown eyes and shame.

“Yeah.” Milly nodded in agreement. “You’re fucked, mate.”

***

The two of them walk to Klopp’s office. They were supposed to be off today, so the place was deserted except for the paparazzi at the gate hoping to get a scoop on the latest football scandal. It was surprising, therefore, running into Mo Salah in the hall. He must have forgotten something, Robertson thought. Just as he was about to say hello, Salah swung his arm around Robertson in a friendly, jovial manner. The Egyptian was smiling, whcih wasn't a surprise because he always smiled. He was always happy. 

Which made the death grip around Robbo’s neck very suspicious.

“I watched your video this morning,” Salah said. Robertson could feel the hairs on his back rise up. Fuck, he thought. He'd forgotten about what he said about Dejan. 

“It was funny, very funny, …You must have been very drunk, no? To say those things about the mother of my children.”

“Mo, A’m sorry, Ah—” Man, was that chokehold strong. 

Salah laughed again. “I couldn’t believe my ears when I watched it. Dej kept telling me, ‘No…Mo, don’t get angry. He was drunk. He was stupid. Don’t get angry. No.’ So, I tell Dej, love of my life. ‘I’m not angry. Why would I be angry?’ Why would I be angry, Robbo?”

Salah’s arms were pretty much made of brick. “Mo—” Robbo started but couldn’t finish his sentence.

“It’s not because you disrespected my omega. Why would I get angry about that?” Mo’s grip tightened. Robbo was sure he was going to past out. “Because I am not angry, I won’t say, ‘if you look at my omega’s butt again, I’ll cut off your balls’ or threaten you with ‘if I ever see you alone with him, you’re dead.’ Because we are friends. Friends don’t do that.”

“Mo, I—”

“Friends are considerate of each other’s mates. Aren't they?"

“Yes—”

"Now we are good friends, aren’t we?”

Robbo was silent.

“Aren’t we?” Mo asked again, a strange, mad gleam in his eye. He was still smiling.

Robbo nodded his head so much he was sure it would shake off.

Mo grinned at Robbo. Then, the Egyptian erupted into laughter. “What a look! Do you think I’m serious? No! You know I am joking right? Dej thinks you’re funny, so I joke.” Mo laughed again, urging Robbo to join him. Robbo joined him, forcing out a stilted “ha, ha, ha” for survival. Afterward, Mo _jokingly_ stated that Dejan might need an apology and that the Egyptian would like to be there when it happened. When Robbo _jokingly_ agreed to do so, Mo wished him good luck with the gaffer, and that he needed to get home to his omega.

After he left, Robbo stared at his diminishing figure. “He’s not joking, is he?”

Milner shook his head. “No, mate.”

Robertson made a note, that for the sake of his balls he wouldn’t be in the same room as Dejan for a long time. He shoved his face in his hands in frustration. “Why didn’t you stop me, Milly?”

Milner scoffed. “If I could stop you from doing something stupid, I’d switch to defense.”

***

Robertson and Milner treaded on until they were outside Klopp’s office. Robertson, with the heart of a Scotsman who didn’t know any better, charged into the room headfirst. As soon as he entered, however, he remembered one crucial detail he should have taken into account before coming in.

Jurgen Klopp was _one scary omega._

When he first signed on, Robertson was impressed by the sheer size of the man. He didn’t believe the German was an omega at first, not when he towered over everybody at 6’3 and had the shoulders of an American linebacker. If it weren’t for that rich, milky scent of a mother—and Robertson would die before he admitted how much he loved it, because man, that’s a kink he’s not willing to visit—Robertson would have thought someone was bullshitting him.

Honestly, Klopp and Robertson were close. Robbo loved Klopp. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it. He loved the heavy metal-esque style of playing, and how the man knew exactly what to say to rev him up for a big game. He treated Robertson like a son, and Robertson couldn’t imagine playing under any other manager in the world. Klopp was a legend. He was _family_.

He also took sexual harassment _very_ seriously.

The next fifteen minutes were spent yelling at Robertson for his stupid, disgusting behavior. Klopp rarely got angry, but when he did, it was brutal and German and loud. The noise made Robertson’s hangover worse, and the guilt just about killed him. Every word hit hard, because Klopp was right. Robbo did know better. He cared about every omega on his team like they were his brothers, and he’d be furious if someone said to them what he said about Messi. Hell, he was the first one to throw down whenever someone badmouthed one of his teammates for their sex. They knew that, and he hoped Klopp knew that. Robbo wanted to apologize, but it didn’t feel right to interrupt. When Klopp settled down, Henderson looked like he was about to yell at him, too. Robertson knew he was going to take it, no jokes or anything, but the captain didn’t get a word in when Klopp started talking again. He was done with anger. Now, he was just tired and upset.

“Robbo, I’m disappointed in you. I truly am. I know you are better than this, and that’s why it hurts so much.” Klopp sighed. “I thought you respected your teammates more. I thought…” Klopp shook his head, “You respected _me_ more.”

Jesus, just stab a stake through his heart. It'd be less painful. Nothing could match Robertson's shame as he remembered that Jurgen Klopp was a player in the worst time it was to be an omega. Their manager never went into detail, but Robertson knew the stories—omegas forced to trade sexual favors for playing time, assaults by their teammates, blatant disregard by their managers. At a press conference advocating for more transparency in football, Klopp revealed how an older player once invited him over his house to discuss a transfer, only to demand a blowjob for his time. For most of his career, Klopp did his best to make sure that never happened to anyone again. He campaigned for more protections, and Liverpool’s team currently had the highest number of omegas players in the Premiere League, and his former club had the highest number omegas in all of men's football. He fought against regulations and proposals that would limit omega’s standings, including contract clauses that imposed penalties for pregnancies; he stopped a rule from being passed that allowed clubs to force suppressants on their players. The matter was important to him. Robertson thought about the arguments he could have made. One, there were far worst incidents. Two, his comments weren’t even that bad. Three, four, five… but none of those excuses left his mouth.

Because none of them mattered.

Robertson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a coward.

“A’m sorry,” Robertson told his coach. “Ah really am. Ah was drunk. Ah know it’s no excuse, but Ah didn’t mean tae hurt anyone.”

Klopp stared at him for a moment. Then, he sighed. “I know.” The German leaned back in his chair. “Our media team has already scheduled a press conference for a public apology, and a PR specialist will be there to guide you through it. No jokes. No funny business.”

Robertson nodded. “That’s fair.”

“And we’ll schedule educational classes for you and the rest of the boys,” Klopp said, passing a judgmental glance towards Milner.

The vice-captain startled. “Wait, even me?”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I try to stop him.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Henderson snapped.

Milner looked like he wanted to protest but then settled. “Alright, then. Looking forward to it.”

“Good,” Klopp agreed. He returned his attention to Robertson. “After the press conference, you’ll need to pack your bags.”

Fear coursed through Robertson’s veins. “Are ye gettin’ rid o’ me?” He hoped the crack in his voice wasn’t as loud as he thought it was. 

Thankfully, Klopp gave him a sympathetic look. “No, of course not.” He shook his head. “You made a mistake, and I know you’re sorry. You’re lucky your teammates have a sense of humor—though I’d avoid Mo for a while.” Klopp chuckled. “However—” There was steel in Klopp’s eyes. “I do believe Lionel Messi deserves an apology as well.”

***

Liverpool's administration booked them a suite in a discreet hotel in Spain. They would have to share a room, but as a consolation, they were allowed to use the private jet. The attendant came back with Robbo’s water and Virgil’s deliciously, enviable scotch. As he sipped it, Robertson realized something. “Hold on, pal, why are ye comin’ wi’ me?” Robbo snapped his attention to Alisson. “Why are ye both here?” 

The Brazilian goalkeeper seemed to notice they were talking about him and gave them a thumbs up. Despite his irritation, Robbo smiled back. No one could hate Alisson. It was impossible.

“Milly can’t control you,” Virgil answered. He sipped his drink. “And Hendo needed to stay for damage control, so that left me. Alisson’s extra muscle in case they try to throttle you.”

Robertson squinted his eyes at Virgil. “Can ye even speak Spanish?”

Virgil had the audacity to laugh. “No,” he answered. “But Barcelona likes me. I can be quite charming,” he said with a wink.

Robertson rolled his eyes. He hoped he got to see Lionel Messi soon because he wanted this trip to be over as soon as possible.

***

“Lionel Messi is not available.”

Fuck me, Robertson thought.

Virgil was the first to respond. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. We were under the impression we’d be meeting today. Our coach was assured we’d get an opportunity to speak to him.” Virgil sounded incredibly calm, though there was an edge to his voice.

The man in front of him smiled, and it was a slimy sort of smile. He was a bureaucrat judging by the way he dressed. Probably never kicked a ball in his life. “Your presence in Barcelona will suffice.”

The man was about to leave, but he did not take into account Virgil Van Djik. Virgil pulled him back. The Dutchman smiled at him, but smile or not, Virgil was a frightening man.

“Run that by me again,” Virgil requested. “Why aren’t we meeting Lionel Messi?”

Robertson could see the man visibly shudder. He cleared his throat. “Our people believe it would be best to handle this matter quietly.”

“Quietly,” Virgil repeated. Robertson watched as Virgil did his sex-powered Dutch voodoo on the man and asked him to elaborate.

“Lionel Messi is the crowning jewel of Barcelona. We believe it is in his best interest to limit interactions with those who may cause him… _unnecessary strife._ Therefore, we decided it was more prudent to schedule a press conference and announce our forgiveness. Formally. No messy business. No additional effort on your party.” 

“I see,” Virgil said. The Spaniard breathed easily. He tried to leave, and once again, the defender throttled his efforts. “So, us coming all this way to Camp Nou and wasting our time. This was all for show?”

The man coughed. “We appreciate your effort, and we will paint you all in the best possible light—”

“You realize this is more than a matter of good press?” Virgil asked. “Robertson wants to make an apology. Our manager wants him to make an apology.”

“We appreciate that but—"

“And I’m glad you appreciate it,” Virgil told him. “But see, our manager is not going to appreciate that we came all this way, and Robertson didn’t get to apologize. See, _I_ want to make my manager happy because when Klopp is happy, he makes _me_ happy. And when he is _not_ happy, neither am I. And no one wants me to be unhappy. You feel me?” Robbo watched Virgil tighten his grip on the man’s shoulder. He towered everyone, and in front of this suited administrator, he looked like an enforcer more than a player.

Before they knew it, the man was scrambling to make a call. The three Liverpool players waited. After several seconds of hysterical Spanish and the thinly laid threat brought upon by Virgil’s presence, the Spaniard announced Messi was coming down.

“You don’t have much time. He’s incredibly busy,” the man warned, before running upstairs to safety.

Virgil smiled victoriously. 

“Klopp’s pussy must have superpowers,” Robbo muttered, which earned him a shove from the third captain.

The warning from the message did little to dissuade them, so they waited for what seemed like hours until Lionel Messi came down. He arrived with the rest of the first team. They all marched behind him like dogs, ready to sic on the Liverpool players at the slightest command. Robertson always found their pack dynamics to be disturbing. Liverpool was a family, but Barcelona was a fucking cult.

 _But_ damn—did Messi look fine as fuck.

Ah fucking hell, Robertson thought. He could smell the soap on him. His hair was slightly damped, and judging by the time, he probably just finished training and gone through a wash. Whatever Barcelona offered their players were of much better quality than the ones they received at Liverpool. Messi smelled _delicious_. It was an open secret that Robertson had a sweet tooth, and here they were, dangling this dessert in front of him. Jesus Christ, Robbo was in trouble. He didn’t notice the last time given the adrenaline pumping through him, but with a clear mind, he could smell it all. Messi’s natural scent was caramelly and thick, like clotted cream or something equally delectable—Robertson could eat him out for days. He could eat him now.

Robbo must have been staring because it took a rather hard shove to knock him back to his senses. Virgil raised his eyebrow and gestured him towards the star player.

Ter Stegen stood in front of Messi. He claimed to be a translator, but it was clear he was using his giant form to keep them as far away from Messi as possible. Robertson snapped out of his trance. Messi was staring at him. Robbo tried to ignore the heat that built up inside him when Messi looked at him with those gorgeous, chocolate eyes. He had to focus. He needed to apologize. The apology needed to be heartfelt and real and not corrupted by the fact that Robbo can’t stop thinking about Messi sitting on his face, smelling like sin.

"A’m sorry,” Robertson told Messi. He took a deep breath. Messi didn’t smell nervous or anxious, or even upset. He was completely calm, and his sweetness smell like smoothness felt. “Ye didn’t deserve tae be spoken like thon. Ah think you’re th' greatest player o' a' time, omega or nae. Ah used tae watch yer games as a kid—A' still dae! You…you’re juist amazin;. World-class, an' Ah have nothing but respect for ye. A know A says thae things, an yeah, A meant it—not the whole ‘they only wantit ye on the team because you’re got—definitely not," Robertson cursed his mouth. “Bbut whan Ah said you’re bonnie an' eye-catching—that wis aw real. Because shit, did ye give us a beatdown the first time, an Ah couldn’t e'en hate ye because ye were so good. An' ye you looked _so good_. Okay, fuck, rewind tho. I’m sorry. Ah did it again.” Robertson groaned. “Listen, A didn’t say those things tae make it seem like ye were less o' a player because ye were an omega. A was…stupid. A wis drunk an; stupid, an' A thoucht A wis a lot funnier than A' am an' I’m sorry. A really am.”

Robertson took a deep breath after giving his apology. His heart was beating like a hummingbird. Messi was staring at him. He didn’t look upset, or angry; at best, he seemed interested, if not a bit confused. 

Ter Stegen looked at him, and then looked at Messi.

“ _Lo siento_.”

Silence.

The goalkeeper folded his arms as if daring someone to say otherwise. There were few people on the team who could translate English to Spanish as well as him, so most just stood there, wondering if they should leave or clarify.

Robertson stood with his mouth agape. He clenched his fist, ready to throw down if his efforts to be a decent person kept getting upended by a bunch of Barca cultists. Fortunately for Robertson, Messi stood his ground. He tugged on his German teammate’s sleeve, and despite being such a small man, the pull was almost enough to knock Ter Stegen off balance. He gave a response of his own. Robertson watched Ter Stegen respond to Messi, and the two had a brief conversation. At the end of it, Ter Stegen rolled his eyes and said the Spanish equivalent of whatever a petulant ‘fine’ would be. Then, he turned to Robertson.

“Apology accepted,” Ter Stegen told Robertson. Upon saying that, Messi swatted the German on the head. He spoke, waved his finger in irritation and to Robertson’s immense satisfaction, the man looked chastened.

It was fucking adorable, Robertson thought.

“He said,” Ter Stegen spoke like he just swallowed his own vomit, “He’s appreciates you coming all this way to apologize.” 

Robertson didn’t need to know Spanish to understand that Messi said much more than that. Before Robertson could protest, Busquets took Messi aside to speak. The conversation was not soft, but they seemed to have confirmed that none of the players spoke their language, and therefore there was no need for discretion. Bit rude, Milly would say. Robertson wished he could prove Barcelona wrong. The Scotsman lamented not having his vice-captain by his side, because the man could at least translate. He turned to Alisson, hoping the Brazilian goalkeeper knew a smidgeon of Spanish to help them out, but the man looked significantly distracted by Ter Stegen, who had started chatting up with the Liverpool goalkeeper. The omega seemed rather charmed by the German and turned red when the man praised him for his performance the past year. Robertson raised an eyebrow at the two goalkeepers because, dear God, would they make beautiful, _huge_ children.

Robertson shot Virgil an annoyed look, and Virgil shrugged when he told him, “Players gonna play,” as if that explained everything that needed to be explained. 

Suddenly, Messi barked at Ter Stegen to come back. The German stood at full alert and immediately returned to Messi’s side. Robertson watched the Barca pack turned to leave. It spurred him into action; Robertson wasn’t thinking when he jolted forward and grabbed Messi’s arm to pull him back. His pull was hardly more than a toddler chasing after his mother’s skirt, but the rest of the team reacted as if he’d pounced on the man.

Vidal’s hands grabbed him by his shirt. The other teammates swarmed at him. Messi was pushed backwards, as the alphas created a barricade of bodies blocking him from Robertson. His features expressed annoyance, and there was some scolding in the background as far as Robertson could tell, but his voice was drowned out when Vidal started yelling at him in Spanish. Exasperated, Robbo asked if they were dealing with a pack or a hive.

“If you touch Messi again, you will be taken care of,” Ter Stegen threatened.

“Oh, so now you can translate?” Robbo asked. “Well, maybe you can tell him I’d be interested in touching him a few more times.”

Ter Stegen narrowed his eyes.

Robbo swore he could feel needles on his back from the way Virgil must have been glaring at him. Despite his guilt, Robertson was no punk. He bared his teeth in a smile, challenging the Barca players, and then asked if he was hoping to throw down because Robbo _never_ backed down from a fight. More indignation built up in his body, because _yes_ , Robbo fucked up; he fucked up saying those things about Messi and every other omega featured in that rant—but he wasn’t going to grovel for Barcelona’s fucking approval. They didn’t deserve his apology. Robbo pushed back at Vidal with full force. The action spurned more tension, and when they got further in his face, Robbo stood his ground and got closer.

“Listen, I didn’t come here to start shit, but if you think I’m going to let you fuck with me, I’ll sure as hell end it,” Robbo promised them. He looked in the back to match eyes with Messi, who continued to watch from afar. Messi was expressionless, but he wasn’t _uninterested_. Robbo returned his attention to the opposing. “I fucked up, okay? You can go on about how I disrespected him all you want,” Robbo told them again. “But at least I respect him enough to think he can speak for himself. That’s a grown man you’re trying to protect over there, and I think the fact that he’s _still_ standing there, greatest player in the world—proves he can handle himself.” 

To Robbo’s immense satisfaction, everyone grew solemn. None of them bothered to admit he was right, but Robertson had enough experience with Catholic guilt to tell when a man was ashamed. 

Virgil stepped in to suggest they reschedule the meeting with a translator of their own. Ter Stegen immediately refused, citing the complications in prolonging the meeting. Barcelona’s administration was adamant about sticking to their plans. Before either side could come up with a solution, Messi stepped back into the fray. Despite their earlier manhandling, no one blocked his way when he walked straight towards Robertson.

Messi looked him up and down, assessing him like a piece of meat. He turned to Ter Stegen. _“_ _¿Cuál es su nombre? Me olvidé._ ” 

Ter Stegen shot Robertson another dirty glare. He sighed, and told Messi, “ _Andy Robertson_.”

Robertson jumped to speak. “Robbo!”

Messi turned to him with an eyebrow raised.

Robertson gestured towards himself. “You can call me Robbo. _Mey_ Robbo.” He emphasized.

Lionel Messi smiled at him. Honestly, there were some matches Liverpool had won that didn’t feel as good as seeing him smile at Robertson like that. He pointed to himself in the same manner Robertson had. “ _Leo_.”

“Leo,” Robertson repeated. “ _Leo_ ,” he said again, rolling the name off his tongue like butter.

Messi chuckled at his reaction.

Ter Stegen sighed. He turned to the Liverpool men. “There, are you happy? Leo has forgiven you. You can leave.”

Robertson was about to tell him he was not happy, and that the only thing that would make him happy was to take Lionel Messi for an apology dinner and buy him ice cream and watch him eat it while Robbo prayed for the cream to drip down Messi’s throat and make a delicious, filthy mess all over his tiny body that he can’t clean without Robbo’s tongue.

Virgil, fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on the perspective, could not read Robbo’s thoughts. He placed his hand on Robbo’s neck and pulled him away with his firm, unnecessarily large hands. The Dutchman announced they were leaving. He thanked the Barcelona team for their presence and gave another apology on behalf of Liverpool. No one was sad to see them gone. Scowls were present on most of the members, but Robertson didn’t care about them. He was still looking at Messi, who stared at him with an unreadable expression that Robertson almost thought was _intrigue_.

***

The three get back to their hotel, with two of the three more satisfied than when they left. Virgil had immediately called the gaffer to let him know that the matter was settled, and somehow took full credit for the apology. “It was a bit rough, but I made sure to keep everyone under control. You know how I do.”

Robbo muttered something about the ‘Lying Dutchman,’ which earned him a sharp glare from the 3rd captain. Robbo was sure he would have retaliated in a more physical manner had Klopp not said something to bring the smile back on his face. “I told you I could handle Robbo…No, no…well, he tried, but you know me…” Virgil chuckled at whatever Klopp retorted. “See, this is why I said don’t worry. You know I hate it when you lose your pretty smile.” 

“Hold on,” Robbo protested. “How come ye get to say that shite?”

Virgil ignored him and started taking off his shirt. “Really?” He chuckled. “Does that mean I get a reward now?”

"Oh no, ye are not havin phone sex richt now."

Virgil did not respond. He merely shoed the Scotsman away as he retreated to the bedroom of the suite. Robertson waited until the door shut, and then a minute later, the slow, sensual sounds of Marvin Gaye’s phased through the door.

Fucking unbelievable. Robbo turned to Alisson to express his disbelief when he saw the beefcake omega getting dressed for a night out.

“Where are you going?”

Alisson giggled. Allisson, Liverpool’s award-winning goalkeeper with the body of a bear and the face of a Hemsworth brother— _giggled_ like a Japanese schoolgirl.

“Marc invited me to see Barcelona,” Alisson explained. He sounded _bashful_.

“What?” Robbo asked, aghast. “When?”

“When you were getting killed,” Alisson told him happily. His English was still rusty, but he doubted Marc-Andre minded. Suddenly, their goalkeeper looked worried. “Is it okay? Can I have fun?”

Only a dick would say no. Robbo certainly wasn’t fond of being left alone in the suite, listening to Virgil trying to put his penis through the phone, but he wasn’t going to deny his friend some happiness. Alisson had enough difficulty in the dating pool already. He was gorgeous, but his body brought some complications. Robbo knew some alphas who would give their left nut for a body like his. The Scotsman had gotten into several fights when he heard how it was a ‘waste’ for an omega to look like _that_ , and it was a _shame_ he wasn’t born an alpha. Each time, it was Alisson who pulled him off them, saying it wasn’t worth it. He hugged Robertson all the same; he was always appreciative when someone defended him, especially when it was clear he didn’t need anyone’s help.

“I’m happy for ya,” Robbo said tiredly. Someone deserved to have a good time today, and it was better Alisson than Virgil. 

The goalkeeper grinned. He went back to the bathroom to get ready for his date.

With Alisson out of the picture, Robbo decided the last thing he wanted was to stay inside. He informed his roommates he was going for a walk. As soon as he opened the door, he saw Lionel Messi standing in front of him.

Robertson slammed the door in his face.

When Robbo realized what he had done, he spent a few seconds having a meltdown, arms flailing, silent screams—the works. He heard Alisson ask what happened from the bathroom.

“Nothing!” Robbo shouted before the man could check for himself. “I forgot my jacket,” Robbo explained when the omega poked his head outside the bathroom. The Brazilian looked at him oddly. It was then Robbo realized he was wearing his jacket.

“And here it is!” Robbo answered. “Was wearing it all along. How about that?”

Alisson grinned. He gave him a thumbs up before resuming his business.

Robbo sighed in relief. He faced the door again. He recited some motivational lines, telling him he could do this, he could open the door, face Lionel Messi—who might not even be Lionel Messi because he _shut the door in his face_ before he could check—and fuck, was that not the worst possible thing he could have done. Robertson’s head ran amuck with bad-case turned worse-case scenarios before it hit him that Lionel Messi was still outside his door. Robertson groaned. There was no way out of this situation.

Robertson took a deep breath and opened the door.

Yes, Robbo thought in shock, this was definitely Lionel Messi.

Before Messi could speak, Robertson got out of the hotel room in case one of his teammates decided to come out. He quickly shut the door behind him and then faced the smaller man, who had no idea of personal space given that he hadn’t really moved from his position despite his proximity to the younger alpha. Robertson almost felt trapped. His back was pressed against the hotel door, and his chest was barely an inch away from Messi. The man looked nonplussed by Robertson’s bizarre behavior, but he wasn’t offended. His eyes continued to pierce right through him. 

Still hot up close, Robertson thought.

“Uh…” Robbo’s tongue felt tied. He knew from dealing with him on the field that Messi didn’t know too much English, and Robbo didn’t speak a lick of Spanish. “Hola?” He offered.

Messi’s lips twitched. At least someone was amused. “ _Hola_.”

They stood in silence for a short, but somehow _painstakingly uncomfortable_ , period of time. Robertson sighed. Hand motions it was.

“Why.” Robertson waved his hands around. There was no good way to motion the start of a question. “Are you.” He pointed to Messi. “Here.” And then to the ground.

Messi blinked at him. He was staring at his mouth like Robertson had just incanted a spell. The Scotsman sighed and moved on to a different question. “Do you.” He pointed to Messi again. “Want to.” His hands pointed back and forth to their mouths. “Talk.” Messi looked more confused, so Robertson resorted to making mouth puppets with his hands. “Talk.” He repeated.

“Ah.” Messi’s eyes lit up in recognition. “ _Si, quiero hablar contigo_.”

Great, Robertson thought. Si meant yes. He was on the right track. All of a sudden, Messi grabbed his arm. Robertson was taken back. “Speak. English.”

“A am speakin' English.”

Messi’s frown got deeper. Robertson didn’t know it was possible for him to look more confused than he did. His mind flashed back to the memory of Salah making fun of his Scottish accent, asking why there were no subtitles when he spoke. Robertson laughed when he said it, and he laughed hard, but now he was cursing his Scottish upbringing for making his life so much harder than it was.

“Shit,” Robbo swore. Messi raised an eyebrow at his curse—apparently, he knew the swear words, which brought a small smile to Robertson’s face. “Ey, let’s juist…ye want to grab somethin' tae eat?” He made an eating gesture. “Dinner? Di…dinero?”

Messi’s eyes flickered with recognition at the last word. He patted his pocket and took out his wallet. “ _Tengo dinero_.” 

Robertson coughed. He heard footsteps inside his suite get louder, prompting him to action.

"Okay. Ye know whit? let’s juist gae. We’ll figure this oot along the way." Robertson shuffled Messi to the elevators. If Robertson wasn’t in a rush, he may have noticed the coy look sent his way when he placed his hand on the small of Messi’s back. He might have even seen the way the omega licked his lips when they entered the elevators, and eyed Robertson’s package in approval.

***

Liverpool had no place for alphas who couldn’t take orders from an omega. Henderson—ironically, the most alpha of alpha males—made this clear to him upon arrival. Robbo later learned this was the standard talk the Liverpool captain gave to all new transfers. Henderson’s lecture always included a history lesson on how Liverpool set the standard for omega treatment, the number of famous omega players they’ve produced, how even as an alpha, he never failed to defer to his captain, Steven Gerrard. “You know, a lot of alphas have problems being under an omega in a hierarchy.” He gave Robertson a stare that chilled him to the bones. “You’re not one of those guys, are you?”

Robertson swallowed. “Nope,” he answered immediately. “No, not at aw. Ah love omegas—I mean, A respect them. A lot. I’m really looking forward tae bein' on this team an' workin' under Klopp. He’s a legend,” Robertson stuttered out. 

Almost immediately, Henderson replaced his solemn expression with a grin. “Good. You’ll fit right in.” And like Henderson promised, Andy Robertson was a perfect fit for the Liverpool family. He was okay with taking orders from an omega, good at in fact, judging from Klopp’s approving expression every time he followed one of the man’s plays.

With that being said, Robertson would have _really_ appreciated an explanation for where he was going. He got into Messi’s car without question and let him drive him away from his hotel without question, and when Messi drove them to the outskirts of the city with no possible way of getting back, he sat still— _without question_. Eventually, Robbo decided that at this point, he should be given a clue of their location.

“So…” Robbo started. “Uh, where are we…” The Scotsman coughed and put on his best British accent for sake of comprehension. “Where are we going?” He asked.

Messi turned to him and smiled. It made Robbo feel warm inside, which Robbo chalked up to the man being hot.

“ _Mi casa_ ,” Messi answered. "My house."

“Oh. Okay.”

Messi continued to drive forward. Robertson thought about asking ‘why’ because they were supposed to go to dinner, and sure, maybe Messi figured it would be a better idea to eat at his house where the paparazzi wouldn’t be able to find them _but still_ —it was a relatively far drive. The more Messi drove, the more it became apparent to Robertson that they were headed towards the middle of nowhere.

And no one knew where he was.

Robertson took out his phone to secretly text Virgil or Alisson a quick message of his whereabouts when the car stopped in front of gates. He watched Messi take out a badge and swipe it on the security plate, and then drove inside once the doors opened. The string of mansions brought Robertson some relief. Disregarding the affluence, the area seemed like a perfectly normal, gated community. When the two of them reach Messi’s house, Robertson doesn’t even have the energy to be in awe of the magnitude; he was simply too grateful not to be dead.

The two of them were met with loud barking when they arrived. The largest dog Robbo had ever seen came running right at them, nearly knocking down everything in its way to get to them. The beast was even bigger than Messi. It tried to jump on its master, and Robertson, on instinct, blocked the creature from going forward. He only realized how stupid he looked when he heard Messi laugh behind him. Robertson stood down. He listened to the dog growl, looking like it was ready to rip Robertson apart; Robertson didn’t doubt it could. Finally, the omega walked around Robertson and crouched down to pet his dog. He said some words of comfort, which turned the snarling creature into a keening puppy. He licked his master eagerly and happily followed him to the other room.

Robertson couldn’t help but smile. It was like being in secondary school again, watching his first Barcelona game on TV, and getting indoctrinated into the greatness that was Lionel Messi. The dog stomped around Messi, trying to get him to play, but Messi refused its advances. He said something that Robbo couldn’t understand, but the dog seemed to, and allowed itself to be kissed as a consolation gift. Jealousy bubbled in his gut before his face turned red. 

Jesus Christ, Robbo was getting jealous of _a dog._ He shook off the weirdness. “Guess you like things big, huh?” Robbo asked, and then blanched at what an idiot he was.

Messi didn’t notice. “ _Si_ , he is big dog.” He turned to Robertson. “Hulk.” He said, and Robertson wasn’t sure if that was his name or a comparison. He asked Robertson, _“¿Quieres algo de tomar?_ ” Then, he paused, realizing his mistake. “Drink?” Messi tried again, mimicking the motion as Robertson had earlier.

Robertson’s smile got wider. “Uh, yeah. I’d love a drink. Um, _me gusta_?” He tried. Messi chuckle, and despite his embarrassment, Robertson was pleased the omega was amused. “Anything but tea,” he said. 

Before Messi left the room, he stepped behind Robertson. The alpha jumped when he felt the omegas hands on him but settled down when he realized the man was removing his jacket. He helped the older player take it off and thanked Messi when he hung it on a coat rack. Messi gestured Robertson to a chair, which the younger man took as a sign to sit. It felt obvious, but that didn’t stop his butt from hesitating to sit on the chair.

Moments later, Messi came back with tea.

Well, Robertson thought, not the worse translation. He got the tea part right. He smiled at Messi and sipped his beverage. God, he hated tea. He wished he had the balls to ask for biscuits because a cup of tea’s only worth was dunking biscuits.

“Oh.” Robbo looked up. Messi out of his chair. The older man returned with a bag of shortbread, and Robbo swore he heard the angels sing. The Argentinian player took some out and put them on the plate.

He must have saw Robbo’s confusion because he explained, “Luis likes the cookies.”

Thank you, Luis Suarez. Robertson always knew a Liverpool legend would save his ass one day. Robertson happily took his biscuit and dipped it into the tea. After the first bite, he smacked his lips in delight. “Perfection,” he moaned.

Messi laughed and joined him for a cup.

Robertson was on his third cookie when he looked up at Messi. The man didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Reality hit Robertson. He was in Spain because despite only meeting Lionel Messi twice, he managed to disrespect him on every single occasion. He screwed up on his apology, made a pass at the living legend after accusing him of getting his position for being pretty—said as a joke, but _still_ —and yet the omega agreed to meet up with him in person. 

Robertson swallowed the last of his tea. It burned like scotch. “Leo,” he started out. Messi looked up, curious. “ _Lo siento_ ,” he told him. It was all he knew in Spanish, and yet it was more sincere than anything he could have said in English.

Messi blinked at him, and then nodded. “I know,” Messi told him. “You…” He gestured to his head, and when that didn’t convey what he wanted to say, he made an exaggerated drinking motion. “Drunk. A lot of beer.”

Robertson chuckled, and soon his chuckles turned to full-blown laughter. Messi laughed with him. When Robertson finished, he smiled at the older omega. “Still wasn’t right," Robbo said. 

Messi smiled, but it was clear he didn’t quite understand.

Robertson sighed and said, “A…" He thought about it for a bit. "Estupido?” 

“You…” Messi drawled out. “Are stupid?”

“Yes!” Robertson said excitedly. “Yes, _estupido_. Very estupido! Mad daft.”

The declaration settled between the two of them. There was silence, and then suddenly, both started laughing again, and it was nice and sweet, and the best time Robertson could have over a plate of tea and cookies. Eventually, they finished up the sweets, and Messi got up.

“ _Me estoy cambiando_ ,” he told Robertson. He picked up a menu from his coffee table and handed it to Robertson. “Pick,” he told him. “We eat.”

“ _Gracias_ ,” Robertson replied proudly. Messi smiled at him and left Robertson with the menu. To his credit, Robertson tried his best to decipher the words, but the pictures were unrecognizable, and he found himself sinking his head and sighing. He got up to look for Messi and spotted him through the slightly open bedroom door. Just as Robertson was about to announce his presence, Messi took off his shirt.

No, Robertson thought. No, this couldn’t happen. But to Robertson’s immense horror, it was, and sure enough, Messi dropped his shirt on the floor, revealing his tight, little body to Robertson’s unblinking eyes. He bit back his groan. This was not fair, he thought. Robertson was a good man, but he was _weak_. No alpha could truly turn away from the lovely hands that danced on the waistband of his shorts, pulling it down his hips to reveal his creamy, peachy skin. Robertson bit his lip. His cock, the traitorous beast, was reacting. There was no way he could say anything now. He tried to make a quick retreat, but as soon as he turned around, Robert faced the beast from earlier.

Hulk started barking loudly, and Robertson loved dogs. He really did. He just didn’t appreciate one snitching on him after he perved on an omega like a peeper in a bathhouse. Before he could hush the creature into silence, Messi’s bedroom door slammed open. Messi’s eyes open wide.

Fuck, he thought, before Messi _laid onto him_. Robertson didn’t need to know Spanish to know his ass was getting reamed. The aggression was enough to have the dog running the other direction, leaving Robertson to fend for himself against a very angry omega. Messi didn’t even stop to breathe. He kept shouting profanities at the younger alpha, and Robertson winced every time the man hit a new volume in his tirade. Robbo tried to explain, but the words couldn’t get out. Despite the anger pulsating from the smaller man, Robertson couldn’t do anything but focus on that soft, plush mouth, and tiny body, and dear god—“Man, I want to fuck you,” Robertson slipped out.

Messi stopped shouting.

Robertson froze.

Messi glanced at his face, obviously terrified, and then looked down at his now, ever-evident erection. Robertson figured he was already dead; he might as well go in for the kill. He bent down and kissed the older omega. The kiss was sloppy and disgusting, their teeth hit each other, their tongues were flailing about like virgin school children, but dear God was it the best kiss Robertson had ever had in his life. Messi pushed him away and slapped the living hell out of the alpha.

The action knocked Robertson back to his senses. He immediately tried to apologize, but Messi then grabbed his head and pulled him down for a rough kiss. The omega dragged him to his bedroom and shoved him on the mattress. He took off his pants and ordered Robertson to do the same with a curt, “Off. Now.” Robertson was no fool. He was not going to ask questions or look a gift horse in the mouth, but when Messi crawled into his lap, it occurred to the alpha that he may never have another chance like this again.

He needed to make the most of it.

Messi yelped when the younger man flipped him onto his back. _“¿Que haces?_ ” He asked outraged.

Robertson didn’t answer. He was faced with the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen in his life. The pinkness was the thing soliloquies and sonnets were made for, and Robertson sent a quick prayer to the man upstairs for giving him this fine meal. Messi struggled until he felt the tongue flick against his clit.

Messi’s hips jolted upward. “ _Oh_!”

Robertson grinned. That was what he liked to hear. Robbo dove in, dragging a long lick against Leo's tiny clit to his dripping entrance. He pushed his tongue inside Leo, feeling his nubile body buck forward in delight. Leo’s lips folded onto his tongue, but the growing slickness helped slip him inside so that he could lick Leo all the way inside. Robertson added pressure to the cunt by adding his finger, pumping it in slowly as more juices flowed out. His tongue lapped onto the gushing juices against Messi’s stretched pussy. He continued to lick and drool over the hole until his lips felt swollen, and when they did, he added in a second finger to help stretch the omega out. Messi bucked into his mouth the deeper his tongue went, and Robertson loved it. The best part of eating out was the reactions, seeing how their cunt tightened when his tongue dug as deep as it could get inside the omega. It only got better when Messi’s cunt started to clench.

Robertson pulled out his fingers to use them to work his clit, really driving the omega mad. He did this for as long as he could, listening to Messi moan as his body lost all control, writhing and jerking against his mouth. He came immediately—Robertson’s lips were swollen and red and the rawness was worth the gushing fluids that poured into his mouth.

Robertson licked his honey-coated lips. Messi was panting as he stared at Robertson with half-lidded eyes and a coy smile. For a brief moment, they stared at each other, and then Messi spread his legs apart.

Robertson coated his fingertips with Messi’s slick before smearing the juices over the head of his cock. He guided his dick towards Messi’s dripping slit, before pressing into the omega. The sopping wet opening stretched around his cock.

Messi gasped as Robertson continued to push more inches inside of him. Robertson groaned, relishing in the squeeze of a tight pussy. Messi’s arms swung around Robbo’s neck and pressed their bodies together. The action forced more of Robertson’s cock inside the omega, and the omega responded by wrapping his legs around Robertson’s waist so the rest of him could go in.

“Fuck!” Robertson yelled. He was entirely inside the omega, and fuck was the pussy perfect. Tight and hot and wet, it wrapped around him like vice, and seemed intent on molding around his cock. He wanted to stay inside for days, but a single, intuitive roll of his hips, reminded him of the bliss of added friction.

The alpha started off slow. Robertson eased out, and then pressed back in again, in short, agonizing thrusts. The omega’s pussy clamped down on him each time he tried to withdraw and seemed to milk him draw when he came back. Robertson moved faster each time, fucking him into the mattress as thrust, urged by Messi’s keening cries each time. The omega released many blissful sounds, and all Robertson could think of was filling up the cunt for the rest of the night.

Finally, Robertson’s cock dived in deep. He pinned the smaller omega onto the bed, and started to pound into him with hard, steady strokes, barely leaving Messi’s pussy the entire time. It wasn’t long before Robertson was coming deep into the pussy, pumping cum until his balls ran dry. He didn’t leave until he was soft, and Messi was panting, and after a few pulses, the older man clenched around his softening cock, indicating his second orgasms.

Robertson couldn’t help it. He dropped on top of the omega, tuckered out from the extreme fucking he gave. He couldn’t think of a word to say, except thank you and questions one should never ask after a mind-blowing orgasm. All of a sudden, Messi shifted underneath him. Robertson was ready to pass out, but his cock seemed to remember the mind-blowing pussy and twitched.

Man, Robertson thought. He should come to Spain more often. 

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by several things.  
> 1.The Liverpool-Barca match. Robertson shoved Messi’s head after Messi was knocked down. Messi yelled at him and Robbo grabbed his waist in response (which I found incredibly sexual cause I am a pervert). Then, Messi shoved his head right after.  
> 2\. The fact that Messi only speaks Spanish and Robertson only speaks Scottish-English. I, a native English speaker, once watched a video of Scottish footballers playing FIFA, and could not understand a word being spoken. If two people yelling at each other in foreign languages the other doesn't understand is not comedic gold, I don’t know what is.  
> 3\. Love, Actually, and the relationship between Colin Firth and Lucia Moniz’s characters. I love the idea of people making things work despite not knowing each other’s languages. 
> 
> EDIT: I ended up moving this on my alt account for stories I'm no longer proud of, but don't feel like deleting. This was an experiment since I hadn't written humor in a long time. While there are some parts I love about this story, there is a point where I'm disappointed cause it's not to my standard. Have a great day, and stay safe.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by Anonymous Log in to view. 




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